An Array Of Flavors
by Measured
Summary: He'd started this game of sorts one day, and now it'd become something of a ritual between them. Medic would make all sorts of dishes for Heavy, and they would describe it together. It made the meal more intimate, and helped expand Heavy's English vocabulary. It was his highlight of the day. Well, after the part where he got to violently dismember the other team. Heavy/Medic


Title: An Array Of Flavors  
Series: TF2  
Character/pairing: Heavy/Medic, with a bonus appearance of Scout  
Rating: PG-13  
Author's note: cottoncandy_bingo: flavor. I love you, Scout, but sometimes, I have to be mean to you. It's like the law, or something. I'm pretty sure you're tossed out of this fandom on a rail if you aren't mean to Scout at least some of the time.

Anyways, this is my headcanon. Do I have to even warn for gratuitous descriptions of gore in this fandom? ...do I have to warn if it's treated as romantic and foreplay?

**.**

Archimedes peered over from his perch on Medic's shoulder down into the pan.

"Now don't you go flying into the soup, Archimedes, I just got you out of Scout's chest again," Medic said. Archimedes cooed in response.

"I mean it, Archimedes."

Archimedes cooed again, and turned around.

He knew he wasn't alone, but he hadn't bothered to look back. Scout wasn't that good at stealth–you could never get him to shut up long enough–especially considering he'd been muttering swear words under his breath for the past fifteen minutes.

"If you think you're gonna woo my ma, you got another thing comin', " Scout called from just outside the door. He looked in, and drew back when Archimedes flew off of Medic's shoulder. Lately he was acting as if he were afraid of Medic's birds or something. Medic couldn't fathom why.

"Ach, _nein. _ I have no interest in your mother in that way," Medic said.

"What, she ain't good enough for you?" Scout said. "You and your fancy German medical degree?"

"For the last time, I'm a married man," Medic said.

"Oh. You sure 'bout that? Chowder is what she makes when she's bringin' men home," Scout said suspiciously.

"Yes, I'm sure," Medic said, irritation rising.

"Still, you better not get any ideas," Scout said.

"Or you'll beat me within and inch of my life," Medic said. "You told me. Shouldn't you be bothering the person who is actually seeing her?"

"Ma yelled at me for bein' mean to him," Scout said, sounding very much like a petulant teenager.

Medic could have added that should Scout ever actually make good on his threats of beating him within an inch of his life, he could look forward to either being torn limb from limb by Heavy, or ending up on his medical table. Perhaps both, if he was lucky enough.

Medic decided not to mention it. He was always partial to surprises.

Scout peered into the pot, squinting suspiciously, as if Medic might have stashed Scout's mother's underwear in there, or something.

"Smells good," Scout said rather sullenly.

Medic pulled out a smaller spoon. He blew on the soup until it had cooled somewhat, then passed it to Scout. "You can be the first to test it."

Scout looked at him suspiciously, as if he'd put poison in it. As if! Everyone knew his preferred place to put the poison was the coffee pot of the opposite team.

Finally Scout wrested the spoon from him and tried it.

"Pretty good. Not as good as ma's, though," he said.

"It's a first attempt," Medic said.

Scout could be ridiculously determined and stubborn at times. Make that all the time, actually. Medic tried to think of a way to shake him from the subject of his mother. He didn't know a thing about baseball, but then, there was Scout's _other _ interest.

"You know, women like men who cook," Medic said.

"You shittin' me? Women want a man's man," Scout said. "Someone who is ripped and manly and crap. Y'know. Like _me._"

Yes, because his attempts at wooing women were _so _ successful. "Of course, I'm just the only married man on base. I know nothing about women," Medic said dryly. Never mind that his marriage wasn't the sort Scout thought it was, and was more a deep friendship with an understanding. Scout certainly didn't need to know that half of what had brought them together was a mutual love of buff and violent men.

He smiled, and imagined a calming image of removing Scout's vocal cords without anesthesia and sewing his mouth shut.

_Much better._

He'd gotten so much calmer since he started the count to ten method, and used those ten seconds of thinking of the kinds of experiments he could do to his fellow teammates and workers and bosses. Why, just today he'd spent a good twenty seconds thinking of cutting up the Sniper on the other team for taking him down three times in a row right after he'd gotten out of Respawn. It was a very relaxing exercise, and had made the battle that much better.

Scout broke him out of his relaxing reverie of blood and gore.

"I don't have to wear an apron, do I?" Scout said. "And... you really think she'd like chowder?"

Truth be told, he didn't speak to Miss Pauling that much, and most of the time around her was spent trying to not get his body parts confiscated. Last time, she'd even taken the Spy's head which he was having so many thrilling experiments on. It had compromised their work relationship, to say the least.

"Not if you don't want to." Medic said.

"Man, my brothers would tease the hell out of me if they knew, but I could try and get the recipe from ma. It can't hurt, right?"

Medic could think of a dozen things which could go wrong, but now was not the time to mention it.

"You should call her right now, especially as I have someone coming to visit in a few minutes," Medic said pointedly.

For once, Scout got the point right off.

"Oh yeah, your wife and all. Good luck, old man. You'll need it."

Medic narrowed his eyes at Scout as the troublesome boy left. Note to self: bring Scout for unnecessary treatment. Don't use anesthesia.

Medic stirred the soup and waited. It wasn't more than a minute or two before he heard the door opening again. Heavy came in, and Archimedes flew straight to his shoulder. He'd grown so fond of Heavy that he'd perch on him any time he was in the infirmary. It was actually hard to get him out of the way for surgery, or other intimate moments that didn't involve a bonesaw, unless Heavy let him play doctor.

"Was little Scout bothering you?" Heavy said. He gave a suspicious glance back out the door, which was still wobbling from how hard Scout had pushed it as he swaggered out.

"It was nothing, he was just being his usual charming self," Medic said.

"Charming self?" Heavy looked alarmed. "He _flirt _with you?"

"No," Medic said. "Just making sure I'm not attempting to woo his mother."

Medic stirred the pot a moment, then looked back at Heavy.

"What would you do to him if someone actually had flirted with me?" Medic asked.

"I would rip them apart with bare hands. I would break their limbs and beat them to death with them. I would feed him his limbs as they screamed for mercy," Heavy said. He had this wild look in his eye, like a Nordic Berserker.

"You always know just what to say," Medic said. He sighed happily. Heavy's strength was astounding, and to see that strength in motion, it was like finding a god in human flesh.

Heavy pulled up a chair to the table Medic had installed in his medical room just for this reason. Well, that and the occasional holding of baboon hearts. He'd custom made a chair just large enough and reinforced with enough metal that it could hold Heavy's girth without the slightest discomfort. Having chairs break on him always made Heavy a little sad, given that he always attributed it to his slight paunch and not the weight of his magnificent muscles.

"You remembered not to shower," Medic said.

"Yes... Are you sure about this, Doctor? I do not want to smell."

"Don't be silly, you know I prefer you covered in the blood of your enemies," Medic said.

"I got revenge on Sniper for you," Heavy said. "Got revenge with bare hands."

"Did you smash his face in?" Medic said dreamily.

"Yes," Heavy replied.

Medic sighed happily. What a man.

"_Good. _ Ah, I didn't get a chance to ask you this morning—Did your poker game go well?"

"I won hats," Heavy said. "They have strange humor, though."

"Oh?" Medic said.

"They did not find story about enemy Engineer funny at all. Not even the part with fingers."

"_Really? _ Then they must not have any humor at all, because that's one of your best. Especially the part where you fed him his fingers as he screamed for mercy," Medic said.

They'd laughed on that one for what seemed like hours last time he'd opened up Heavy. He hadn't actually had a reason, but he loved looking at Heavy's body, inside and out. Even his heart and lungs were especially robust, and his muscles–he was such a fine specimen, Medic couldn't help himself, sometimes. Heavy was such a good sport about it. Well, actually he thought it was completely legitimate medical practice. They all tended to assume that, for some reason. Medic couldn't fathom why.

"Some people just have no taste. Speaking of taste—"

Medic got up and checked the soup. In a moment, he deemed it good enough and poured out Heavy some in his very own large bowl.

"This is New England Clam Chowder. I got it from Scout's mother."

"Capitalist food," Heavy said.

He reached out and patted Heavy's hand. "What Mother Russia doesn't know won't hurt her."

Heavy hadn't had much during his life, and even now, he didn't ask for much. A place to live, a larger bed for his gun. But food and books were few things he would indulge in. Medic picked up books every time he went into town, until Heavy's house was wall to wall books, with a large pile at every quarters in every base. He hid away recipes and cookbooks to provide a surprise from the monotony of day to day life, and each time Heavy's face would light up in childlike glee when this soup or this roast was brought forth.

"How would you describe it?" Medic said.

Heavy took another spoonful and contemplated the soup.

"What is word? Milky?"

"No, that's not the word you're looking for. I think you mean—" Medic took another spoonful of the soup. "Creamy. That's the word."

"Yes, creamy! And it is very warming."

"Anything else?" Medic asked.

"Fishy?" Heavy said.

"Well, it does have the taste of clams," Medic said.

"Clammy?"

"No. Clammy means damp, wet or sticky."

"Makes no sense," Heavy said.

Medic shrugged. "That's English for you."

He'd started this game of sorts one day, and now it'd become something of a ritual between them. Medic would make all sorts of dishes for Heavy, and they would describe it together. It made the meal more intimate, and helped expand Heavy's English vocabulary. It was his highlight of the day. Well, after the part where he got to violently dismember the other team. Though that was every day that ended with y.

"Is good," Heavy said. He pushed aside his finished bowl of soup. He always did eat quite fast, and with such joy, too.

"Yes," Medic said. He smiled, and took Heavy's hand in his own. "It's very good, isn't it?"

He wasn't looking at the soup.


End file.
